Sunrise
by ardavenport
Summary: Qui-Gon Jinn involves himself in the traditions of another world while his Padawan tries out his emerging diplomatic skills. Qui-Gon POV, Obi-Wan in last scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**SUNRISE**

by ardavenport

**- Part 1 -**

A deep reverberating gong sounded from the tower above. The lighting changed as the edge of the fiery orange disk of the sun peeked over the horizon. The square, stone towers almost glowed a pale brownish-gray, their reflected light illuminating the arena below.

The Executioner bowed in the direction of the sunrise. She welcomed the morning with a muttered prayer in an ancient language. "Tuth-a hozhi el elm mahoui." She had skin the color of dark, gray stone, tough and weathered. She was broad-shouldered, her bare arms well-muscled from years of performing her art.

She was perfectly attired in millennia of tradition of the Noi'i. White, tan and yellow were the sacred colors of one who was called to take any other life, either sentient or animal. Her white and yellow short dress looked new; there were no old stains to hint of her many years of service. The animal-hide cross-straps and the collar that draped over her shoulders looked stiff, the simple, square pattern along it's edges newly stamped. But her tan skullcap, boots, bracers and belt were well-worn, though clean and buffed.

The Executioner was also conspicuously armed with matching long-knives in sheaths strapped to her calves, crossed hatchets on her back, smaller knives on her shoulder straps, wickedly curved blades on her belt along with a whip, blow-tube and a cylinder of long darts. They were traditional weapons, of course. The tools of slaughter.

She stood, her feet spread apart, her powerful body at ease as she contemplated her task with unspoken prayers. Then she lifted her head and turned. After a brief bow to the main gallery above, she strode back to the stone stocks on the high, raised stone platform in the center of the arena. She reached for the golden-bladed axe, resting on the flat top of the stocks, over the head of the victim.

Qui-Gon Jinn heard her lift the large, heavy axe blade over him, his head and arms trapped in the stone; the locks had been smashed and blasted to keep him from escaping. The air whistled as she experimentally cut the air with the curved, micron-fine edge. Qui-Gon saw her legs move close to him. He felt her large hand first rest on his head, then stroke the long brown hair that hung down around his face. Qui-Gon felt her passion for her task through the Force. She took great pride in her calling.

"The sun will take your soul, your blood will feed the land." Qui-Gon accepted her words, her sincerity. He felt it. He felt her strength through her hand, her body. He felt the hard stone under him, under her, the solid stocks that trapped him. He felt the whole space of the arena as if it were an extension of his own senses.

The Executioner lifted her hand. She raised her axe and Qui-Gon felt it's weight as she tested the reach of her swing over his exposed neck. Qui-Gon flexed his muscles, his knees pressed to the stocks, his bare feet flat on platform.

She lifted the axe high and inhaled deeply for the strike.

The Force flowed upward though Qui-Gon. The axe descended just as Qui-Gon pushed upward, the stocks rising with him.

The blade shattered, the metal pieces flying in all directions as Qui-Gon propelled himself forward, the Force filling him with strength. He leaped over the edge of the platform and twisted in the air. The stone broke on the stones inset into the hard, dirt floor of the arena.

Qui-Gon let the impact flow through him, through his arms and neck as he rolled away from the pieces. He immediately whirled, his hand snapped closed before him.

The Executioner's solemn demeanor had broken as well. Her blow tube still held up to her face, her pale, blue eyes stared at him, at the large, poison dart that Qui-Gon had just caught. Qui-Gon didn't even look at the long dart, he kept his own, dark blue eyes on her.

He whirled away from the broken stones. His arm flew out and the dart shot upward.

The Executioner jumped back, her gaze following the dart's path over her head. She stood with her back to him as she stared up at the dart, it's metal tip, deeply embedded between two stones in the overhang above the main gallery. The people there leaned forward, trying to see where it had landed. Some of them exchanged worried whispers. Except for Obi-Wan. Master Qui-Gon Jinn's Padawan stood back on the risers; his face showed neither surprise nor worry, though Qui-Gon knew that his slightly amused expression only concealed his concern.

The Executioner reached back, grasped her axes and, hefting them, turned back to her victim. Qui-Gon stood below.

Qui-Gon wore only a long, coarse, sleeveless shift, nothing else. His long hair hung loose around his face and down his back. It felt heavy in the warm, humid air. He was barefoot and alone on the packed dirt and stones. He had not been allowed to eat or drink for the past day. The Noi'i did not provide last indulgences for their condemned. Or for those who took the places of their condemned.

The Executioner cautiously descended the steps, disappearing only for a moment behind the death platform. Qui-Gon studied her, as he had when she'd been preparing to kill him earlier. She still prepared to kill him. He sensed her thoughts, her dislike of a fight, the prospect of a messy kill. He had not shaken her confidence that she would take his life. She just wasn't certain about how she would do it.

He waited for her, his expression purposefully blank. The broken stones and rubble of the stocks lay between them. She carefully went around them, her boots making only a whispering, scratching noise on the ground. The reflected light in the bare arena grew brighter as the sun rose higher.

Qui-Gon backed up, keeping just out of reach of her swinging axes. She was shorter than he was, and the reach of her arms shorter than his as well.

He let her drive him around the death platform while he studied her motions. She had been trained to fight, but clearly not for speed. She relied on power and strength to overwhelm her opponent. She was well rested and now expected to tire Qui-Gon with the chase before closing in. She could see he was much quicker than she was. She didn't expect her blows to connect, but she would not let him rest, either.

Qui-Gon dove forward. He caught the Executioner's arm, raised to strike, and with his other hand, twisted one axe out of her grasp before twirling away from her. Gathering the Force to him, he leap upward and alighted onto the edge of platform. He turned to look down at her. Again, she stared back at him in shock.

Qui-Gon swung around and ran to the stone block on which the Executioner had planned to lay out his body, butchering select portions of his flesh for the ritual cannibalism later. He seized the fine white shrouds meant for wrapping his remains. He needed their protection from the sun. He heard her footsteps below, running around the platform to the stairs. She leapt up them, two at a time.

He faced her, the axe held up in one hand, the shrouds bunched up under his other arm. She paused, her pale eyes evaluating his stance and the weapon. She carefully stepped forward. He didn't move. They faced each other, the stone black between them.

"You are condemned. Your death only waits its reality," she stated in a cultured, feminine voice.

"Not, I think, today," Qui-Gon replied in his own, refined Coruscant accent.

"The sun will have you. Today. It will take your strength; I need only wait for it to reach its height." She lifted an arm up toward the direction of the sunrise; the tan bracer on her forearm stood out on her dark gray, leathery skin.

"The Force will have me. In it's own time," he answered.

**- - end Part 1 - - **


	2. Chapter 2

**SUNRISE**

by ardavenport

**- Part 2 -**

He lowered the axe that he had taken from her. She studied him and lowered the axe she still had.

She turned and walked around the butchering block. He didn't move until she was almost within swinging distance. She pulled her arm back to attack when he crouched, but she completely missed him as he jumped high up in the air, flipping backwards off the platform. He twisted in the air to evade a spinning axe that came after him. Qui-Gon landed on the ground of the arena as the axe clanged against the wall behind him.

The Executioner frowned down at him. She could not jump down that far without injuring herself. She turned and walked back to the stairs; she did not hurry this time.

Qui-Gon quickly threw down the white shrouds. He took one and cut off a large triangle with the sharp blade of the golden axe head. He folded over the long, ragged edge that he'd just cut and then tied the triangle over his head, knotting it under his chin. He took another shroud, cut and then ripped a large square off of one end. Another cut with the axe blade gave him a hole that he pushed his head through, the fabric hanging down as a crude poncho over his exposed arms.

The Executioner had come around the platform, but instead of attacking, she simply walked around him, though she clearly looked unhappy with Qui-Gon's use of the death shrouds. She continued on to the wall of the arena.

The axe, lying on the flat stones at the base of the wall, lifted up off the ground and flew past the Executioner before she even got close to it. It landed neatly in Qui-Gon's outstretched hand. The Executioner whirled and stared at it. Then she stared at Qui-Gon.

For the first time, Qui-Gon finally sensed doubt in her. She remained fixed in place while he calmly used the second axe to cut another piece of shroud. He tossed the axe to the ground next to its mate and then tore off a long strip of fabric. He began tying this around his waist to hold the front and back ends of the poncho fabric to his body.

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!" Seizing a curved blade from her belt, the Executioner rushed at him.

She went flying back, pushed by the Force from Qui-Gon's outstretched hands. He slowly lowered his arms and watched her pick herself up from the ground. When he was satisfied that she was uninjured, he bent down and picked up the strip of fabric and began tying it around his waist again.

He could not injure her. That would count against him as a real crime under Noi'i law, though keeping out of the Executioner's reach wasn't. This was a conspicuous loophole in Noi'i law, a loophole clearly meant to ease the consciences of the judges condemning others to death. Typical, unarmed and bound prisoners could take little solace from knowing that if they somehow evaded their sentence without escaping or attacking, they would not be penalized for it.

He finished tying the fabric around his middle and picked up the remaining pieces of the shroud. He needed to fashion something for his feet before the sun rose too high. Even the Force could not protect him all day from the hot sand and bare stone of the arena. Already, an edge of brightness crept down the wall of the arena under the main gallery. Soon, there would be no escaping it. From mid-morning to late afternoon there would be no shadows to protect him.

The Executioner was standing again. She took the whip off of her belt.

Crack!

The barbed tip snapped loudly over Qui-Gon's head as he tore off two wider strips of fabric to make pads for his feet. Fabric was poor protection, but folded and layered, it would be enough. The Executioner swung the length of her whip, preparing for another strike. Qui-Gon felt her motions as an extension of himself.

He was himself, a Jedi Master; he was the arena, the stones, the platform in it, the rising heat in the air, the hard packed ground, the Executioner nearby, looking for her chance for a fatal blow. He felt a phantom touch on his back through the Force where the whip end would miss him again. He didn't flinch when it missed him, coming closer this time. He used the axe blade to make another cut in the fabric to make ties for the pads for his feet.

The Executioner threw her arm back, the whip flipping back behind her.

Qui-Gon ducked forward and spun. The golden axe blade flashed as it sliced the air. The end of the whip fell to the ground. Qui-Gon did acknowledge the Executioner this time with an annoyed glare before he picked up his dropped fabric again and went back to tearing it into strips. He heard several whumping sounds as she experimented with what she had left of the whip, but the instrument was clearly ruined.

He took one of the wide strips hanging off his arm and folded it into a pad a little bigger than the sole of his foot. Immediately, he realized that it wasn't nearly thick enough to work. He shook out the folds and hung the white strip back on his arm and reached down for more fabric from the diminished shrouds. The Executioner had not moved any closer to him.

"The sun will have you," she told him, but her voice had gone flat, losing its fanatical edge.

"For the day, at least," he acknowledged. Molty Kohm's death warrant, the one that he had accepted for himself, expired at sunset. Whether he lived or not, Kohm's crime would be erased. This was yet another conspicuous loophole in Noi'i law, that another person could assume the guilt and punishment for a capital crime.

However, Qui-Gon Jinn had absolutely no intention of dying for Molty Kohm, a former Senator to the Republic and overall loud-mouthed politician who had badly overplayed his position in a struggle between tradition and change. Kohm was aggressive and manipulative, but his motives came from a life of struggle against the prejudice that he had suffered from simply having been born at night, away from the blessed sun of the Noi'i. With his own natural talent alone, he had risen to the highest ranks of his world's political elite, but he had a character that would never be satisfied with his accomplishments. Kohm had pushed his fellow elites too far.

Qui-Gon folded another pad for his foot and when he had combined it with his earlier attempt he was satisfied that it would do. The Executioner had not moved. Qui-Gon laid the first pad down on the ground and started working on the second.

The Executioner walked in a wide circle around Qui-Gon; her footsteps on the stone and packed dirt hardly made any echo at all in the still, humid air. The huge, electronic sound baffles amidst the complex of buildings around the arena cancelled the sounds of the city around them. Even the voices and sounds of the occupants of the main gallery were muted. The heat of the day rose. Perfectly aware of her actions, her intentions, her surface thoughts, Qui-Gon tore off another few strips of fabric.

The light of the sun had reached the lower half of the wall under the main gallery. Bright tans and grays glared into the shadows of the rest of the arena.

Qui-Gon sat down on the hard ground to tie his improvised footwear to his feet. This time, the Executioner hesitated, but she couldn't resist what appeared to be an opportunity, while his hands were busy. One of her long knives hissed out of it's leg sheath. With three strides, she swiftly came from behind, the knife raised to slit his throat, her other hand reaching to grasp his hair.

Qui-Gon rolled to the side, his head going under the swish of the blade through the empty air. She cried out her frustration as she pulled back for another stab and he caught her wrist. Continuing his roll he took her arm with him and pinned it to her back as he rose to stand again. With one sharp twist of her wrist the knife fell to the ground. Before she could turn to free herself, he captured her other arm as well. Qui-Gon pushed forward and down, forcing her to her knees and then flat on the ground. She grunted when she landed.

The Executioner was heavyset, well muscled and massed at least as much as Qui-Gon, but with his full weight on top of her, she could not struggle free. He then took the strips of fabric that he still held in his hand and bound her arms behind her. She squirmed and thrashed her body as well as she could. She bellowed her outrage as he repositioned himself on her buttocks as he reached for more fabric to tie her wrists.

When he was satisfied that she was properly bound, he twisted around and took the other long knife out of its calf sheath. He tossed it over to where the two axes lay. He searched the back of her belt, removing tools and deadly implements and tossing them onto the pile of weaponry as well. Then he rose to his feet and pulled her up.

She unsuccessfully tried to kick him.

Qui-Gon pushed her down hard to sit on the ground and with one arm firmly holding her across the shoulders, he removed the rest of her tools from her belt and added them to the pile. He also found a few, small cutting tools under her animal hide collar. She wordlessly struggled against him while he disarmed her. The Executioner pushed back at him and let her body sag, trying to pull him down. He released her suddenly, letting her fall to the ground. While she got her feet under her, Qui-Gon picked up a last, dropped knife and added it to the now considerable collection on the ground.

"You. Are. Condemned. Jedi."

Qui-Gon turned.

The Executioner's eyes filled rage, her dark gray face was now smeared with dust and sweat, her white and yellow dress smudged and askew. She hated him now. Qui-Gon could not fault her for that.

"You chose to stand for another. And now you cheat justice? Coward," she accused, her pleasant, feminine voice had gone low with rage. Qui-Gon appraised her unemotionally as he paced before her.

"Justice? If I have trod on your justice, then there are plenty here to enforce it." He waved his arm toward the witnesses in the main gallery, high over the arena, and toward the few guards scattered in the otherwise empty galleries all around them. The spectators watched with intense interest, but none took any action.

The Executioner simply glared back. Then she backed away from him, her head lowered.

"I will leave the field. I do not twist justice with slippery words. _I_ will satisfy justice." She turned toward the single dark, open doorway through which she entered the arena. Qui-Gon quickly blocked her way. Any executioner who left her victim alive with the death sentence still active was required to forfeit her own life at the next sunrise.

"I think not. There are far too many willing martyrs here." Qui-Gon's eyes flicked toward the gallery where Molty Kohm glowered down from amidst the other politicians and his Padawan near the back of the crowd. Qui-Gon deeply disdained martyrs; as a Master of the Living Force, martyrdom symbolized only death, darkness and false sacrifice to him.

Denied what she thought of as an honorable death, she angrily tried to push past him; he easily pushed her back. In danger of losing her balance and even more of her dignity with her arms and hands tied behind her, she backed away.

Qui-Gon lifted his hand and approached her like he might a wounded animal.

"You have done your duty well," he told her, his voice low and soothing. She had a strong will, not easily influenced, but her weakness was her duty and Qui-Gon used it. He fixed on her pale, blue eyes and held them with his own. He sensed her thoughts through the Force as if they were partly his own. To the Jedi they were. He pushed away the anger. "Your duty is here." He gestured upward. "Under the sun." A veil of confusion clouded her determination; her broad face went slack.

Qui-Gon turned her away from the door and walked with her along the wall.

"Come, sit," he urged.

"No." Her eyes widened with surprise. "I must stand. It is my duty."

"Of course," Qui-Gon agreed immediately. He stood with her a moment before leaving. She contentedly gazed upward, admiring the blue sky and fluffy, scattered clouds above.

Qui-Gon went to the collection of weapons and gathered them up in a large piece of shroud cloth. Then he took them to the open doorway and tossed them far into the black shadows within. He heard them slide along the duracrete floor, sometimes colliding with wall or furniture in the darkness. Qui-Gon glimpsed a few black-on-black outlines of people inside and heard their movements, but none of them spoke or came near the door.

He glanced back at the Executioner when he was finished. She hadn't moved and she even had a small smile on her lips as she admired the sky. Sighing, Qui-Gon went back to the pieces of shroud, now trampled on the dirt. With his back to the platform and the main gallery and facing the Executioner, he quickly folded and then tied his improvised 'shoes'. They would be adequate enough to protect his feet from the hot ground and stone, but if he had to run, he doubted they would last more than ten strides. He tucked the rest of the fabric and strips of cloth under the length tied around his waist so that it hung behind him.

Qui-Gon went to the wall near the Executioner, where the morning shadows would last longest. He sat down and crossed his legs, his back to the wall, the Executioner motionless on his left.

He readjusted his improvised scarf to shade his head better. His hair and skin were damp and sweaty, especially where the shroud fabric was tied under his chin and around his waist. The sweat on his body did not evaporate in the humidity; it only weakened and dehydrated him more than he already was. Qui-Gon was thirsty; he had been since the night before in his cell. He accepted what his body told him he needed and focused on his need to wait until the sunset. He breathed in deeply, willing his body to generate less heat.

The arena was now nearly a third filled of sunlight. The day would get much hotter.

Qui-Gon's eyes scanned the gallery above. There had been only muted exclamations from the dignitaries in the main gallery. The observers were only for ritual purposes; the arena was a sacred space where the blood and killing could be purified when the sun passed overhead. The scattered guards, in their formal orange uniforms, trimmed with white that stood out against their gray skin, looked down with mixed surprise and concern. The Noi'i were a human-type species with pale, sometimes bleached eyes and hair, and varying shades of gray skin, toughened by their planet's white primary.

People spoke quietly amongst themselves in the main gallery. While the sunlight grew in the arena, the shadow over the spectators increased. Molty Kohm and two members of the Traditions Committee seemed to be haranguing Obi-Wan, who stood impassively with his arms folded before him and tucked into the sleeves of his Jedi robe.

A small smile curled Qui-Gon's lips. Kohm still seemed to think that he could intimidate his barely nineteen year-old Padawan. Obi-Wan Kenobi replied calmly. Only a trace of the sound of voices reached him, but Qui-Gon could guess what the exchange was about.

Kohm had been furious that Qui-Gon had stepped into his grand gesture in court two days ago. Obi-Wan hadn't been very thrilled with his Master's surprise declaration either, but he had waited to argue with Qui-Gon in private. Kohm had been quite public about it, his stone gray face coloring brownish-gray with outrage while he delivered his diplomatically phrased, but still cutting insults about Qui-Gon's inability to grasp the depth of tradition, and life and death in general.

Even after they'd discovered that Kohm's chosen Executioner had been replaced by one loyal to the Traditions Committee, Kohm had still held onto his outrage. He had declared that he was willing to perish if necessary, to allow his deputy to push forward the demanded changes in Noi'i laws. Qui-Gon knew with a certainty that Kohm meant it, too. He was aggressive and obnoxious, but Kohm was sincere and completely dedicated to his cause. Qui-Gon had no doubt that Kohm would find some spectacular way to sacrifice himself someday, but the Jedi Master did not care to be around to see it.

In the gallery, Kohm had given up on getting anywhere with Obi-Wan and now, backed by his deputy and his followers, took on the Traditions Committee members and the Speaker of the Planetary Duma. Obi-Wan visibly stayed at the edge of the debate. His apprentice had participated in negotiations before. Qui-Gon thought he had a natural talent for it, but this was the first time that he had been forced into the lead under such dramatic circumstances. Now, from what little he had been allowed to see as a prisoner, Qui-Gon noted, with some pride, how much older and mature Obi-Wan looked.

In the arena, the sunlight had claimed nearly all the open area, except for the narrowing band of shadow that Qui-Gon sheltered in.

Qui-Gon sensed movement on his left.

The Executioner had stepped forward into the sunlight. She stretched her body upward, as if she drew strength from the bright light streaming down from overhead, her arms and wrists still bound behind her by the white fabric. Qui-Gon watched her carefully, but she did nothing else. He closed his eyes, feeling himself at one with the space around him, the Force and the Executioner from whom he sensed only calm contemplation and joy in the sunlight.

Jedi mind influences could be powerful, but they were temporary. Qui-Gon doubted that even he could keep the Executioner from returning to her purpose of killing him for the whole day, but for the moment she seemed content.

Qui-Gon's haven of shade shrank until he was finally forced to stand on his improvised shoes in the direct sunlight. The arena had been designed to retain the heat of the day like an oven; the stifling humidity intensified the temperature even more.

Up in the gallery above, a white servitor droid arrived with refreshments for the witnesses. Another droid circulated around to all the guards.

Qui-Gon bowed his head, pulling the edge of his scarf further over his face, tucking his arms under the white fabric draped over him, keeping as much direct sunlight off of him as possible. Noi'i's sun was harsh with short wavelength radiation and while direct exposure was not immediately harmful, Qui-Gon needed to last the whole day.

A movement on his left caught his eye again. The Executioner was walking forward, into the arena. Qui-Gon watched her calmly walk toward the platform.

She was halfway up the stairs when Qui-Gon felt the warning through the Force. Up above, Obi-Wan frantically gestured, his words muffled by the arena's sound bafflers. Qui-Gon ran.

**- - end Part 2 - - **


	3. Chapter 3

**SUNRISE**

by ardavenport

**- Part 3 -**

Unfortunately, Qui-Gon's estimation of his improvised shoes had been correct and he had to kick them off on the stairs, slowing him down. The Executioner had already knelt and stood up again. Even with her hands and arms bound behind her, she could still pick up one of the shards of the blade of the axe that had been broken on the stones of the stocks at sunrise.

She stood, facing him when he reached the top of the stairs. The stone platform was hot on his bare feet and scattered with metal pieces, glinting golden in the sun. He had to shift from one foot to the other, as well as skip around the hot, sharp metal shards. They would burn even the Executioner's tough skin, but Qui-Gon knew this would not stop her from using one.

He saw the rhythmic motion of her shoulders as she sawed through her bonds with the sharp metal. She backed up to the edge of the platform; he couldn't tackle her without both of them going over the side. Qui-Gon breathed in, the Force flowing into him, from the hot stone under his feet, from the sunlight above. He extended his hands and pulled the Executioner toward him.

She followed his pull and ran right into him, knocking him down. He heard the clink of the metal shard as she dropped it. Her arms were still bound, but she rolled on top of him, trying to pin him to the hot stone. He felt it through the shroud fabric and his sleeveless tunic; it burned his bare legs and arms wherever they touched it. She anchored herself with her legs on either side of his body. Pushing forward, she tried to head butt him, but his forearms blocked her.

He pushed her off, rolled away and back up onto his feet. He heard the fabric of her bonds tearing. Diving forward, he seized her collar and belt, and heaved her up onto his back. He leaped off the platform; the Force flowed through him, absorbing the impact as his knees bent when he landed. The Executioner rolled forward off his shoulder and Qui-Gon immediately dove on top of her, planting himself on her broad back over her arms and facing toward her legs. He muscular body bucked under him, but he held her down. Her wrists were nearly free, the fabric cut and stretched, but her arms were still pinned by the cloth holding them behind her.

Qui-Gon took a new strip of fabric from the extra cloth hanging from his waist and re-tied her wrists. She shrieked her outrage.

"Coward! Coward! You will die alone in darkness! You will die in _space_!!!" She cursed him in the worst way she knew. Qui-Gon saw the palm of one of her hands was brown and burned with a smear of blood on it from holding the hot, metal shard. The bleeding wasn't bad and would stop on its own, but he wrapped extra cloth around it to cover up the wound.

Breathing hard, Qui-Gon finished tying the new knots. He had thoroughly lost his concentration to keep his body temperature low. Even Jedi Masters could focus on a few things at a time. His lips and mouth had gone dry. The scarf had been pushed back from his head and long, lengths of hair hung around his face, clinging to his skin, the back of his neck. The Executioner twisted under him, testing his hold on her.

"The sun gives me strength, Jedi," she hissed, her voice coming from the ground behind him. "It takes yours."

He could not disagree with her. There was no shade left in the arena. The scarce, morning clouds had vanished, leaving only pitiless blue sky above, and the merciless, white sun itself. He breathed deeply, suppressing the beginnings of a headache. His feet and the skin on his calves felt hot and burned in places, along with the parts of his hands and forearms that the Executioner had forced down onto the platform. There would be blisters later, but for now he shunted the pain aside. He still had half the day to survive. He pulled the scarf back over his head and straightened his improvised poncho to cover his arms again before standing and then pulling up the Executioner.

She tried to kick him. One of her boots grazed his shin but did no damage. Then she lowered her head and tried to ram him. He stepped aside and grabbed her by the back of her collar as she went by. She dropped, trying to use her weight to pull him down. He released her collar, letting her fall.

The Executioner struggled to her feet again. Then she whirled and ran away from him, going around the platform.

Shocked, Qui-Gon ran after her. He gathered the Force to him and leapt nearly halfway across the arena after her. His outstretched hand caught her belt and brought her down before she could reach the open doorway. She kicked again and this time a heavy boot connected to his shoulder. He absorbed the pain and impact. He pulled back, getting his feet under him on the hot ground, and simultaneously hurling the Executioner back, away from her escape, and her supposedly honorable death.

She was still struggling to rise again when he grabbed her by the collar and hauled her away. She went limp again, becoming a dead weight, but Qui-Gon kept going, dragging her across the hardened dirt, back around the platform. The hot ground burned into his bare feet and he was forced to weave around the scattered flat stones, flush on the ground.

He dumped the Executioner under the main gallery. Then he went to the base of the platform stairs and collected his improvised foot pads. The Executioner was trying to rise when he returned to her.

Qui-Gon planted a foot on her buttocks and forced he back down again. Then he sat on her. She 'umphed' as he settled his weight on her broad upper back. He first examined one foot and then the other. The callouses on his feet were dusty and dry, but the sensation of heat had left them. Other places on his feet, where the skin was thinner and on his legs were burned bright pink. The pain from them only increased, as if they were still pressed to hot stone. Places on his arms and hands were the same. Qui-Gon closed his eyes; he noted the pain dispassionately for what it was. It didn't recede, but it became less important to him for the time being. It was certainly less important than the angry woman under him.

He untied the strips of fabric still uselessly tied to his ankles and feet, refolded his foot pads and retied them to the bottoms of his feet again. The Executioner silently strained at her bonds while he worked. He turned his head to his left when he heard her boots scrabbling on the dirt, trying to get a foothold so she could push him off. He pressed his hands down to either side, one on her shoulder blade, the other on her lower back, by her bound hands. Eventually she stopped, lying still and panting from the effort, but Qui-Gon continued to stare at something else on either side of him.

The shadow under the main gallery had almost reached the bottom of the wall behind him. The sun had passed it's zenith.

The Executioner continued trying to wriggle out from under him several times as the shade descended over them, but Qui-Gon always anticipated her, always shifting his weight to keep her down. She said something about her dignity, but he ignored it other than squeezing her shoulder with his hand.

Qui-Gon felt the Force in himself, in his captive under him, in the arena, in the walls, and even in the heated, humid air around him. He felt the strength of it, but even the Force could not replace food and especially water. His sense of the Force also told him how badly depleted he was, though he still had the afternoon to endure.

Qui-Gon breathed in deeply, the air and the Force going into his body. Then he exhaled, expelling them outward. He breathed in again. The air tickled his skin, the breath of a breeze from above. He exhaled. Air brushed past his arms, disturbing the white fabric covering them.

Inhale. Now he felt the movement of air on his head and shoulders, on his legs and arms.

Exhale. The edges of the white poncho fluttered again, the air gently blowing up his sides and back, tickling his neck, under his long hair.

With each breath, the air around him breathed as well, the movement of it drying old sweat, cooling his skin.

Qui-Gon sensed the Executioner's surprise. She felt the movement of the air as well. He pressed down on her next attempt to struggle free of him without missing a breath. Inhale. Exhale. The air had become a part of him, connected through the Force, like the arena, the ground, the wall behind him and the Executioner. Qui-Gon did note that the Executioner emphatically did _not_ feel the same connection. She was as insensitive to the Force as the stone platform before them, but she was no less connected to the Jedi.

The area of shadow increased, creeping across the ground, up the side of the platform, covering it. The Executioner spoke several times, but he only answered with a squeeze of her shoulder. Her anger had died down and now he sensed increasing worry. He ignored it as unimportant; he'd said all he needed to say her already. His goal was to endure the afternoon and he stayed singled-mindedly fixated on it.

The shadow climbed the far wall of the arena. Qui-Gon finally sensed the humid air cooling on its own and not just from the tiny, Force generated breeze from him.

He tilted his head to one side as the last line of sunlit wall dimmed and faded away with the approaching evening. The arena now lay in shadow again, as it had in the morning, but the light was different, the sky brighter on the wrong side.

A deep reverberating gong sounded from the tower above.

Immediately a light came on in the open door on the far wall beyond the stone platform. People spilled out of it, running toward them. Leading the crowd was Obi-Wan. The Executioner was speaking again, loudly. He ignored her words, but she struggled under him again and he automatically kept her down.

"Master." Obi-Wan had reached him and now knelt by his side. Another person, Molty Kohm of all people, knelt on his other side.

"Uhh," Kohm flicked at the film of dust layering the white fabric on Qui-Gon's shoulder, apparently unwilling to risk any of it getting on his pale blue and white suit. "You're a mess, Jinn."

"I have done my duty." a woman's voice declared, clipped with outrage. It came from the ground, from his right. Qui-Gon blinked, his brow tightened with concern. The Executioner felt distant to him, like the arena and the air that now had gone thick and steamy. Qui-Gon breathed in, but his connection to the air slipped away.

"Master." Obi-Wan lifted Qui-Gon's arm and put his shoulder under it. Kohm did the same. They lifted him together. Qui-Gon moved his legs, but his feet never quite got a hold on the hard ground. Then he was being set down again. Kohm stood up immediately, frowning down at him. Obi-Wan's arm supported his back. Lightheaded from the exertion of being lifted, Qui-Gon leaned to the side so his head rested on Obi-Wan's shoulder. He smelled the faint, familiar scent of the coarse fabric of a Jedi robe.

Before them, by the wall, the Executioner stood, her wrinkled and dusty, white and yellow dress looked bright in the gloom. She stood apart from two similarly dressed companions, disdaining their aid as she glared down at him. She felt far away from him, but her expression was easy enough to read; she had been denied his death. She wanted to kill him for that.

Kohm yelled something and other voices replied, but Qui-Gon's understanding of what was said left him, just as his connection to his surroundings had. Obi-Wan spoke, his voice close. His connection to the Force renewed and he grasped for it. He hooked his fingers on the front edge of Obi-Wan's tunic. The strength in his apprentice filled him through their bond, reminding him of what it was like to breath and move normally, but he felt like a shadow, only an outline of the memory of strength.

Something touched his lips and liquid trickled into his mouth.

Water.

He felt as if he were falling; the air thickened with the Force, catching him and smothering him. His vision faded to black and Qui-Gon wondered about how quickly night came to...

[][][][][][][]

...tiles.

They were an unattractive, sickly shade of green, at least to Qui-Gon. He knew that other species would react quite differently to that color, but it reminded him of food gone bad.

The tiles were a pattern of octagons, squares and triangles. He had stared up at those tiles before, at night, when they were illuminated only by the sun-lamps in the bare room that he and Obi-Wan had been assigned in one of the Noi'i government buildings.

Qui-Gon moved his head. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply to clear the dizziness. He sighed with relief as it quickly receded. He still felt sluggish, but somewhat rested. He sensed the Force, a gentle flow through his body from his...

...feet?

He saw a Noi'i woman's face above him; her head was veiled in pale yellow, a wide band of glittering sun-symbols over her brow. Her eyes were bleached white, the pupils the only dark spot in them; her face was blotchy, gray and lined with age. Her features puckered in what might have been disapproval.

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to ask who she was; she looked very familiar.

His throat, dry and sore, protested and only a single, painful, 'Aaaggahhh,' came out.

"Ooh-oi." The woman put a hand over his mouth and adjust the sleep couch he lay on so he was partially sitting up. She reached past him and then jammed a wet sponge in his mouth, a long orange tab stuck out before him. Excess liquid trickled down his chin into his beard. "Suck on that first." Qui-Gon reflexively swallowed. The sensation of the cool, flavored water down his throat ignited a terrible thirst in him and he drained the sponge almost immediately. The woman peered closely at him, the ends of her veil falling on his bare shoulder.

"More?" she asked. Qui-Gon nodded. She grabbed the tab, ripped out the sponge and then stuffed in another. She used the edge of the pale blue sheet covering Qui-Gon to dab at the fluid dripping off the end of his chin and beard. At the end of the couch, Obi-Wan sat next to his uncovered feet. He was not wearing his robe and the large sleeves of his off-white tunic were tied back; long, bright yellow gloves covered his hands and forearms. One of Qui-Gon's feet rested on a yellow cloth by Obi-Wan's knee and his Padawan gently rubbed a clear gel into the arch of his foot. Qui-Gon smelled the sweetly antiseptic scent of bacta. His other foot and lower leg were already wrapped in yellow gauze.

Qui-Gon finished the sponge and nodded for another. He tried to take it out himself this time, but his right arm was pinned.

"Please, Master Jinn," implored a gleaming white medical droid in a low, faintly masculine machine voice. "You must keep still. I have not finished replenishing your fluids." A band of soft white plasti-foam encased his forearm and thin tubes of clear fluid flowed from the droid to it. One of the droid's appendages encircled his wrist.

The woman swatted his left hand down.

"Don't use that. He hasn't done that one yet," She ripped out the last sponge and stuffed in another. If Obi-Wan weren't already busy with his feet, Qui-Gon would have requested that he give him the next one. His Padawan's blue-gray eyes went from the droid to the woman and then found Qui-Gon's. He didn't speak but Qui-Gon's foot tingled with the Force under his touch and the soothing relief of the bacta gel. Qui-Gon was quite grateful that Obi-Wan was caring for his injuries instead of this abrupt woman.

"He should be properly treated at a med-center," the droid calmly stated.

"I can see that," the woman snapped, waving one bare and wrinkled gray forearm at the droid. She wore a short-sleeved, white tunic, cinched with a glittering belt of sun symbols that matched the band on her forehead. "But it's better not to be too visible to all the people he stirred up right now."

She poked at the large, purple and black bruise on Qui-Gon's left shoulder, where the Executioner had kicked him. Qui-Gon winced. "Good thing there wasn't anything broken there, since _you_ only came equipped to treat surface damage," she told the droid sarcastically.

Qui-Gon lay back on the soft head-pillows of the sleep couch. He accepted one more sponge before declining another. His hands still felt prickly and burned and the skin on his face hurt with a faint burn as well. He closed his eyes, waiting for Obi-Wan to finish massaging his foot and treat his other injuries as well.

"Ooh-oi." A hand tugged on her beard. Qui-Gon opened his eyes and glared at the woman; she ignored the nasty look he gave her. "Don't fade out again. You're the first one I've ever had to declare living."

That statement clicked in his memory. He remembered where he'd met her before.

She was the coroner.

Her name was also Kohm though he didn't know how she was related to the former senator. She, Molty Kohm, Obi-Wan and a clutch of Kohm's hangers-on had visited him in his cell before sunrise that morning. While she was clearly an ally of Molty Kohm, she treated the leader with disdain and a near disrespect that he had surprisingly accepted. The fact that she normally dealt with dead bodies certainly explained her brusque bedside manner.

He swallowed. "What has happened?" he asked her, his voice low and rough.

Coroner Kohm sat back. "Molty's trying to get the best deal he can out of the Traditions Committee, of course. He complained about what you took from him, but he'll get everything he was aiming for. Just without the drama he likes."

"You don't approve of his methods," Qui-Gon commented up to the woman, his voice a little stronger.

Her nose wrinkled with distaste. "No matter how much he's done for us Nightborn, he was a snotty little kid when he was growing up, and he still hasn't grown out of it." She got up off the edge of Qui-Gon's sleep couch.

"And anyone dumb enough to think that there's a noble death waiting out there for them, hasn't spent enough time around the real thing," she declared, her eyes challenging either Jedi to contradict her. Obi-Wan lowered his eyes, his whole attention on Qui-Gon's ankle.

Qui-Gon smiled. "I believe he could benefit from your wisdom."

She scowled back, as if she would have preferred an argument from him. Then she scanned the room. "It looks like I can officially declare you alive. Molty will just have to learn live with that." Her tone sounded pleased with the expected inconvenience for Molty. She curtly wished them well and left.

**- - end Part 3 - - **


	4. Chapter 4

**SUNRISE**

by ardavenport

**- Part 4 -**

Qui-Gon sighed after the door slid closed behind her. Outside the room's large bay windows, a plane of city light glittered below in the darkness. They were blocked in places by the dark shapes of the leafy plants that grew under the windows. The room was warm, but not uncomfortably so. He closed his eyes.

"Master?" Qui-Gon opened his eyes again and looked at his apprentice. Obi-Wan had finished with his foot and was now wrapping it and his lower leg in a wide yellow strip of gauze. "Should we have interfered?" he asked when he had Qui-Gon's attention.

Qui-Gon Jinn smiled, that Obi-Wan's "we" had included himself in some of the guilt of his Master's somewhat rash actions. "How do you feel about it, Obi-Wan?" he asked. "Not what you _think_ we should have done; how do you _feel_?" he added.

Obi-Wan pressed his lips together, and Qui-Gon knew that Obi-Wan had only been trying to think his way through the Noi'i's problem. He was a very thoughtful pupil, sometimes too much so when he ignored his intuitive reactions to situations.

He laid Qui-Gon's wrapped foot on the sleep couch and pulled the sheet down to cover both feet. Then he moved forward to sit on the side of the sleep couch. He took Qui-Gon's hand and squirted bacta gel on the back of it. The droid's pale, glowing eye sensors followed his movements and the machine directed his technique. Obi-Wan rubbed the gel into the damaged and blistered skin with ends of his gloved fingers with gentle, circular motions.

"I don't think I would have liked what would have happened if you hadn't acted," he finally admitted.

"Aah." Qui-Gon acknowledged wordlessly, momentarily distracted by the cool relief and the touch of the Force he felt through Obi-Wan's hands.

"But," Obi-Wan continued. "Was it our place to act? Should the Noi'i have been left to their own affairs?"

"If they wish to be left alone, then they should not request outside mediators for their negotiations."

"We were supposed to be neutral," Obi-Wan replied.

"We were not observers, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon reminded. "Our parameters for action were clearly defined by their laws. Those laws allowed for a third party to intervene. We were to be neutral to the individual sides, but we were mandated to promote the common good for all sides. The common good would not have been served by Molty Kohm, or any of his followers, becoming a martyr. They could successfully pressure the Traditions Committee into revoking all the remaining sanctions against the Nightborn without that kind of drama," Qui-Gon finished with a tone of scorn for Kohm's tactics.

Obi-Wan concentrated on this so strongly that he forgot his ministrations to Qui-Gon's burns. Qui-Gon's glance down to the hand that Obi-Wan held in his smaller, younger ones prompted him to continue rubbing the bacta gel into Qui-Gon's wounds. He carefully worked the healing gel into the damaged skin on Qui-Gon's forearm. There was little visible change in the pink, burn spots, but Qui-Gon felt as if they were now bathed in cool water. The injuries would burn and itch a little later, but those would be the mild sensations of healing, not injury.

The medical droid finished putting fluids into him; it retracted its needles and tubes and the plasti-foam wrap on his arm. Obi-Wan finished with Qui-Gon's left limb, wrapping it halfway up his forearm in yellow gauze; he changed places with the droid so he could work on Qui-Gon's other side.

"Master," Obi-Wan finally spoke again, as he rubbed the gel into Qui-Gon's wrist. Cool relief spread outward from his touch. "Don't we become part of their problem if we act? Won't we make their situation worse?"

"Of course we become part of their problem," he answered. "If we make their problem worse, then we fail our mission. But failure is always a risk, Obi-Wan, for any mission. If we take any action, we cannot stand apart from them; we become as connected to their problem as the Force connects us all. And if we take no action, can we accomplish our mission? Would we not fail as well, if their problem becomes worse because we did not act?"

Obi-Wan paused for a moment, his eyes concerned. Then he bent his head over his task; he applied more bacta gel from the tube and applied it to a blister on Qui-Gon's palm. The scent of the healing gel had grew stronger.

"Molty Kohm is very unhappy about your actions," he stated without looking up. "He accused you of exploiting a technically, so the Jedi could undermine him and gain control of the negotiations."

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows. "Do you agree with his assessment of my motives?"

"No!" Obi-Wan looked up quickly. "But...there is quite a lot of local holonet chatter about it. You seem to be the only thing the provincial factions want to talk about. Senator Kohm seemed...impatient about that."

"I am sure that will be able to regain their attention to his advantage," Qui-Gon predicted. Obi-Wan returned a small smile at this statement. They had already discussed Kohm's substantial ego after the first day of the negotiations. "Kohm's goals are honorable; I would say his actions have even been courageous, but he does not act selflessly, either. You must separate the personalities of the leaders from the issues, Obi-Wan, especially if they are incapable of doing so themselves."

"Yes, Master." To Qui-Gon, the Force felt as thick with Obi-Wan's thoughts as the air was with humidity, but he also sensed a dawning understanding and initiative as well.

Satisfied that he had given his Padawan enough to think about, Qui-Gon settled back down onto the pillows. Obi-Wan finished with his hand and wrapped it as well. The droid that had been silently waiting for Obi-Wan to finish; it scanned Qui-Gon's face and directed where Obi-Wan should apply more bacta.

Qui-Gon closed his eyes when Obi-Wan applied an index finger-ful of gel to the bridge of his nose and began working downward. Qui-Gon sank into the simplicity of the moment, with his Padawan tending his minor injuries. The roomful of touchy delegates, roiling between tradition and change, had moved on past them. He felt a peaceful connection to the Force, through the room around him and through Obi-Wan.

There were only minor sunburns on Qui-Gon's face and neck and Obi-Wan quickly finished. The droid announced that it had delivered all the medical care necessary. Obi-Wan removed the long gloves and tossed them into a wall disposal. He accepted a data chip from the droid before it excused itself. Qui-Gon sighed. The moment had passed.

"Would you like some more water?" Obi-Wan asked. Qui-Gon nodded. Obi-Wan retrieved a new sponge from a container on a small table next to the sleep couch. Obi-Wan waited for Qui-Gon to open his mouth before giving it to him, and he waited for Qui-Gon to release it before taking it away.

"You wish to return to the negotiations," Qui-Gon stated, his eyes closed; he sensed Obi-Wan's rising eagerness.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan answered respectfully.

"Then you should go." Qui-Gon looked up into his apprentice's earnest gray-blue eyes. He remembered glimpsing Obi-Wan's calm amidst the arguing delegates in the main gallery of the arena.

"I think I can...counter some of Kohm's arguments against your actions. I know I can," he finished with more confidence.

Qui-Gon smiled. He laid one, gauze-wrapped hand over Obi-Wan's.

"Padawan, you do not need to defend me. I do what I must. But I see you have questions, and I see that to answer them, you must act. In _your_ own way. You should go." Obi-Wan looked baffled.

"If...you're not concerned then?"

"Obi-Wan I would be far more concerned if it were _I_ who was going, rather than you." Obi-Wan returned his smile. That part he understood. And the rest, Qui-Gon thought, would come with experience.

Obi-Wan stood and bowed; at Qui-Gon's request, he readjusted the sleep couch and extinguished all the lights, before taking his robe from a hook on the wall and leaving.

Alone, in the dark, Qui-Gon's eyes adjusted to it. He breathed in.

Inhale.

Exhale.

A whisper of breeze touched his skin. He smiled to himself, at the city below, the lights casting their glow upward into the black sky. He lay back on the soft pillows, enjoying and admiring the night.

[][][][][][][]

Qui-Gon opened his eyes. It was early morning, the sky outside was the deep blue of returning night. Some of the light had gone out from the city, but there was still plenty of glow from it. His saw the outline of Obi-Wan's form on his own sleep couch, under the large, middle bay window.

He sat up, flexing his shoulders and stretching in place. His bruised shoulder was stiff and sore, but it didn't limit his motion. He pushed the sheet back and pulled his legs up to sit comfortably cross-legged on the sleep couch. The Noi'i early morning flowed through him. The humid air was now pleasantly warm, relaxing and faintly scented by the plants and gardens outside. The city below was much quieter than Coruscant; the Noi'i used sound bafflers everywhere.

Feeling rested and refreshed, Qui-Gon tested the gauze covering his hands and feet. The pain was gone, though the wounds were only partially healed. He unwrapped the gauze. If he was careful, he would not do himself any harm. He put the bandages aside and rose carefully, wrapping the sheet around his waist. The droid had replenished his bodily fluids and now some of it had to come out again. He quietly left the room and went down the hall to the fresher to take care of it.

When he returned, he turned on the glow light next to his sleep couch to its lowest setting and went to the window.

Obi-Wan lay on top of the sheet on his sleep couch. He was fully clothed, including his robe and boots, and he was also quite soundly asleep, head thrown back, his mouth open. He lay sprawled on the sleep couch, his thin, Padawan's braid laying out across the white pillows. Qui-Gon supposed that the talks had gone very late indeed. He did not want to wake him, but the Noi'i were early risers no matter how late they retired and he did need to ask how the talks had gone.

He leaned forward and nudged Obi-Wan's cheek with his fingers.

"Obi-Wan."

His apprentice's eyes blinked open before focusing upwards at him.

"Master!" he gasped, jumping into a sitting position. Amused Qui-Gon sat down next to him.

"I see the talks must have gone late."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan acknowledged, nodding and settling himself before continuing.

"We have been recalled by the Jedi Council, Master," he began, his tone solemn and serious. "They said that we could wait until you were recovered, but that we should leave immediately and you should report to the Temple from orbit," Obi-Wan said quickly before he lowered his eyes and bowed his head.

"Ah." Qui-Gon now understood why Obi-Wan was sleeping with his clothes on. He nodded. The extremely specific nature of the Council's instruction made it absolutely clear that they expected him to return immediately, without any more drama. "We will leave then."

Obi-Wan lowered his head, guiltily. "I'm sorry, I tried–"

Qui-Gon held his hand up for silence.

"I am quite certain that this has far more to do with my actions than yours, Padawan." Qui-Gon appreciated Obi-Wan's earnestness, but he would not tolerate any attempt to assume blame.

"The Jedi Council offered to send replacements for us, Master Billaba and Master Udas. Molty Kohm told them he would consider it," Obi-Wan finished.

"Did the Traditions Committee make any decisions about recalling the Nightborn sanctions?" Qui-Gon asked.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan reported. "They voted for recall, by one vote. There was a victory party. All over the city," he stated, his voice sad, as if it had been a defeat. "And then Molty Kohm personally commed to Coruscant and demanded that you be removed. He apparently interrupted a Council meeting."

Qui-Gon nodded. Molty Kohm did not want to share his victory stage with anyone. He laid a consoling hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder before rising.

He activated a second glow light before turning to look down at his Padawan. Puzzled, Obi-Wan stared back up at him.

"My clothes?" he prompted, still only wearing the sheet from his sleep couch. Everything had been taken away from him when his petition to assume Molty Kohm's death sentence had been accepted.

"Oh!" Obi-Wan jumped up. He went to a recessed cabinet on the wall and touched the control next to it. The door slid open to reveal a neat pile of clothes, his belt and boots next to them and his lightsaber on top.

"Thank you."

Qui-Gon quickly dressed while Obi-Wan visited the fresher and then put the few other things that they had brought into their travel packs. Seated on the sleep couch while his Padawan gathered their things, Qui-Gon took some extra time to carefully put his boots on his partially healed feet. He stood and clipped his lightsaber on his belt last and then put on his robe.

Qui-Gon's stomach grumbled. He was hungry after the previous days' deprivations, but he would wait until they reached the ship. The supplies there were adequate.

They both silently put on the hoods of their robes. Obi-Wan took both packs and they left together. Outside the sky had noticeably brightened to a dark blue.

They walked down the hallway outside their room to the lifts to descend to the ground floor. When they reached the entrance of the building the secretary at the door informed them that Molty Kohm had arranged for a transport to the spaceport for them.

They left, the large, ornate double doors sliding open for them. Outside, a wall of morning humidity met them. They walked down a long pathway, under spaced glow-lights and past the lush gardens on either side. Their transport waited for them at the end of pathway.

Obi-Wan tensed at the same time as Qui-Gon. They both sensed the presence behind the tall decorative plants that they passed on the walkway toward the transport.

Qui-Gon's lightsaber hissed on, bright green in the morning gloom. It cut through the weapon that hurled through the air where Qui-Gon's head had been a second before.

Obi-Wan dropped the packs, his blue lightsaber blade on and ready.

Swinging his lightsaber in wide circles, Qui-Gon leapt forward and in one bound, faced the person who had attacked him. She did not retreat or even flinch from the green bar of energy before her.

Surprised, Qui-Gon stared down at the Executioner.

She looked up at him from under the brim of a white, cloth hat, the green light from the lightsaber unnaturally coloring her dark gray skin. She wore a large, tent-like, flowered dress with a sun pattern along the hem and collar. Her broad, stocky figure, unconfined by her garb of office, bulged in some places and sagged in others under the loose dress; it's hem hung unevenly between her knees and her shins. On her feet, she wore wide, comfortable sandals, her bare toes exposed.

Obi-Wan jogged up to them, blue lightsaber in one hand, charred metal pieces in the other. Qui-Gon's eyes flicked toward them; he saw a knife blade and a handle very much like the ones that he had removed from the Executioner the day before.

"Will you condemn me then, to die at night? Have my soul wander the darkness, severed from the sun?" he asked her, quoting Noi'i traditions.

She smiled enigmatically, and moved a tiny bit forward, closer to the deadly energy blade. "Would you condemn me?" Qui-Gon sensed none of the anger from the day before; it had been replaced by her fanaticism again. His finger touched the activation switch on the hilt of his saber and the blade vanished with a whisking snap. Obi-Wan's vanished as well.

"Not today, I think."

Her eyes followed the lightsaber as Qui-Gon placed it back on his belt.

"Kohm has his way with the Traditions Committee. They have declared a new sunrise," she said, her eyes, shadowed under her hat brim. her pale, blue eyes looked up at him again. Her voice sounded resigned and disappointed, like a grandmother bemoaning the fate of a wayward grandchild. "Our lives will change even more."

'Change is the way of all life,' Qui-Gon thought to himself, mentally quoting a Jedi tradition. He didn't speak it. The Executioner only recognized death as a way of change. And Molty Kohm, with his thwarted fixation on martyrdom, did as well, in his own way.

"You can embrace the change, welcome it." Surprised, Qui-Gon looked at Obi-Wan as he spoke, his young voice encouraging to the older woman. "This could be your day as well, if you join it."

"He speaks like our young ones," she said to Qui-Gon. "The ones who forget the glory of the Daybirth. They forget their traditions and lose their way." Despite her calm, a touch of bitterness crept into her voice. Qui-Gon looked down at her pale, sad eyes.

"Only the Nightborn are used as Executioners," he noted, his voice gentle. "It has traditionally been one of the few occupations of any status available to them."

"I worked for my place in the sun. I earned it. I earned my strength." She held up a hand, bandaged in yellow gauze from picking up a hot, sharp piece of metal to free herself from Qui-Gon the day before. "Now, the young will be handed pleasures and privileges with no responsibility, unchallenged?" she asked; the bitterness in her tone increased. She clearly had not celebrated the recall of the Nightborn sanctions the night before. "The Traditions Committee might as well have burned all the laws. That is what will follow."

"But they didn't burn the laws," Obi-Wan interjected. He took a step closer. The Executioner turned her head to glare at him. "The simply created a new tradition," he finished.

"You are too young to understand tradition," she replied with scorn.

"I am old enough to have seen, that in time, even change eventually becomes tradition. And even the most ancient traditions were once new," Obi-Wan countered, his young voice the only sound in the morning twilight. She visibly cringed back from his suggestion, but she didn't turn away. Qui-Gon looked from her to his apprentice, who had spoken up so well for himself after being rebuked.

An awkward silence developed and Qui-Gon ended it by stepping back.

Qui-Gon, with Obi-Wan following his lead, folded his arms before him and bowed deeply to her.

Obi-Wan picked up their travel packs and they parted. Qui-Gon felt the Executioner's eyes following them all the way down the walkway to the transport.

There was a driver and two guards who did not get in the transport with them. Qui-Gon assumed that they would report back to Kohm that the unwanted Jedi had left.

If there had been a party the night before, Qui-Gon felt that he had completely missed it as he gazed out at the city. The streets and skylanes were quiet. There may have been more street cleaner droids than usual below, but otherwise there was no sign of revelry. The traffic did increase with what appeared to be the usual morning activity with the approaching dawn. The sky was clear and empty overhead.

They arrived at the spaceport; the transport alighted next to their landing area. Like the government complex, the spaceport was located on higher ground, overlooking the plain of the city. More people than were necessary awaited them, to see them off. Their small ship had been fueled and sat ready on the flat duracrete field. They walked toward it together, but Qui-Gon stopped and turned to look toward the horizon. Obi-Wan went a few paces before noticing. He turned back and came up beside Qui-Gon.

"Qui-Gon?" he asked, curious.

Qui-Gon Jinn glanced down at his Padawan and smiled. Obi-Wan looked younger, his eyes wide, his face unlined, his brown hair dark in the gray, early light, but Qui-Gon had glimpsed a bit of the ascending maturity that was there. The Jedi Master nodded toward the horizon; the haze of the city only slightly obscured the dawn.

"It's sunrise." Over the city buildings, they saw a bright sliver of fiery orange.

In the distance, a deep reverberating gong sounded.

– **END – **

(This story was first posted on tf.n: 23-Jul-2006)

**Disclaimer:** All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.


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